


I Walk a Lonely Road

by CaptainCapsicoul



Series: What's in a Name [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And then finds Steve, Bucky finds himself, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, jewish!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCapsicoul/pseuds/CaptainCapsicoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the Asset.</p><p>He is James Barnes.</p><p>He wants to be Bucky.</p><p>Or, Bucky relearns who he once was. And kicks Hydra's ass in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walk a Lonely Road

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the prologue of my new story! Unfortunately, I won't be posting the rest until it's completely finished, so it'll be a while. It's gonna have a lot of Jewish Bucky and Worried Steve. Gonna be a slow burn people, so get ready!
> 
> Come cry with me about Steve and Bucky on [tumblr](http://ithewhimsy.tumblr.com)! It's mostly Stucky with some Steggy, a whole bunch of Marvel, and a smattering of random cute things. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The helicarriers crumble and explode around them. Shrapnel and bits on fire fall all to near. The Asset has one mission. To finish the man before him. But he’s stuck under an iron beam; all the strength in his arm couldn’t lift it. Suddenly his mission is there. Lifting the beam. If only he can just squirm out. He can. He’s about to strike when his mission speaks: “You know me.”

The Asset charges. “No I don’t!” The Asset punches his mission. The helicarriers continue to fall.

“Bucky,” the mission says. There’s that word again. It pulls at something. Something so unreachable it’s almost not there. “You’ve known me your whole life.”

The Asset doesn’t know what his mission is talking about. He just knows he needs his mission to stop talking. “No!” he yells, punching his mission in the face, causing him to topple over.

His mission is speaking slowly now. With purpose. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

No. The Asset needs him to stop talking. Things are getting muddled in his head. _Focus on the mission. You have one mission. Just make him stop talking. Complete your mission_.“Shut up!” he cries in a last ditch effort to make his mission just stop talking. The Asset sees his mission standing up again. He doesn’t understand. No one has made it this far before. No one has continued to get up over and over again. The helicarriers continue to lose altitude. The Asset sees his mission – tired, sweaty, weary on his feet – and it brings a flicker of something. A memory maybe? A moment? A boy, much smaller than his mission, standing up to men larger. Never backing down. Never wavering for a moment. The Asset doesn’t understand. He’s not supposed to have memories. He’s not supposed to feel. He’s supposed to acquire his target, and eliminate the threat. He has a mission.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” his mission says, his voice tired. Then his mission does something unexpected. The Asset watches as his shield – his defense, his weapon – falls through an opening in the helicarrier floor into the Potomac. “You’re my friend.”

The Asset looks at his mission. This man claiming to be his friend. This man who is making up stories and lies to confuse the Asset. That’s all it is. The Asset doesn’t need his head filled with more lies, comforting lies, only to have them ripped from his mind. There’s only one thing for the Asset to do. He charges at his mission, intending to finish it. “You’re my mission,” he whispers before pulling back his weapon to punch. Then it begins. The part the Asset knows how to do. This is what he’s good at – causing pain, causing death. He punches the man, over and over again. He doesn’t understand. This man, his mission, had been fighting against him before. He had put up a fight. And now nothing. It must have something to do with the lies. The lies the man before him told of their friendship. There’s nothing the Asset can do. He needs to finish his mission. He needs his mission to respond. To show some fear, some reaction to the pummeling. “Fight! Back!” he orders, punctuating each work with a punch. Nothing. This man, his mission does nothing. He lies there, calm on his face, refusing to fight back.

The Asset pulls back for another blow, but stops himself. The mission isn’t fighting back. All the things he said. The claims of friendship, the refusal to fight. The Asset doesn’t understand why, but he can’t bring himself to deliver the final blow. He pauses just a moment, but before he can bring his fist down, the man beneath him says something. It’s faint and riddled with acceptance of his fate. “Then finish it.”

The Asset keeps his fist raised. He doesn’t know why. He just has a feeling he needs to know what his mission would say next. Whatever he thought it would be, he was wrong. He stares at his mission trying to figure out if he could recognize him. There’s something about the man which makes the Asset pause. A glimmer of something so far past and so wiped from his mind that he wonders if this man could fill the holes he knows are there. His mission says what the Asset intends to be his last words. “’Cause I’m with you, to the end the line.”

In that moment, the Asset knew. He knew this was someone different. Different than his other targets. Those words. They triggered something in him. Not a fully formed memory, but a shadow of a moment lost to time. He doesn’t remember the context or even if this man beneath him is the same man silhouetted in the flicker of light. But he remembers the words. Maybe he heard them. Maybe he said them. But he knows. Those words mean something special. Those words are only shared between certain people. Those special, certain people are not ones who the Asset finishes. He can see the moment when his mission knows that he broke through the Asset’s walls. The Asset lowers his fist – to his side this time, not to the man’s face – and pauses just a moment. Nothing is clear in his mind; it’s all fog. He just knows that he must get this man to safety.

Just as clarity strikes the Asset, a large piece of rubble strikes the glass floor of the helicarrier, sending his mission – the man he’s to save – plummeting into the waters below. The Asset knows he only has seconds. His mission is nearly unconscious, and if he’s going to save him, he has to act fast. The Asset jumps off the helicarrier, following his mission into the Potomac. He reaches his metal arm, the one meant for destruction, not saving, and tugs on the buckle of the uniform.

He’s tired and beaten from the battle, but he won’t admit it to anyone; he knows not to. But the Asset feels the burning in his lungs as he pulls the dead weight through the water dodging the falling debris. He breaks the surface and pulls his mission from the water onto the shore. He waits and watches long enough to see that the man is breathing and alive. He waits and watches an extra moment, just to try and see if his mind will clear more. He still is unsure of who this man is or what role he played in his life before Hydra, but he knows this man is someone special. He takes a last long look at the peaceful face, before turning and walking away, not looking back.

* * *

His days are long and the nights are longer. He spends the time in the shadows, away from people. People he could harm. After the failed (or not failed) mission on the helicarriers, the Asset has kept his head down, attempting anonymity, especially from the prying eyes of Hydra. He knew enough when starting to the face that had accepted its fate that he could no longer operate under Hydra control. His mission now is to stay off of Hydra’s radars. First step, get rid of his uniform. He will no longer be the Asset. But he has no clothes. He doesn’t want to steal. He knows where to go.

The Asset finds himself climbing through the window of an apartment which he watched diligently. He knows the layout of the apartment like any good soldier would. They needed him to know. The apartment looks different than it did last time he saw it. It’s a far cry from the tidy, orderly home he once knew it to be. Furniture overturned, books scattered around the floor, and cabinets left gaping. He picks his way through the remains of a SHIELD raid and makes his way to the bedroom. Its state is no different than that of the living room or kitchen – clothes strewed about, mattress upended, and drawers overturned. He sifts through the piles of clothes picking out the most unobtrusive things he can find. A pair of jeans. A simple black long sleeve t-shirt. A plaid-flannel button down. A dark colored light-weight jacket with a collar. A black baseball hat. Enough that will allow him to blend into a crowd. He slips out of his damp Winter Soldier uniform, and puts on the borrowed clothing. It fits him well enough, if a tad big. He carefully folds his uniform, intending to leave it in an incinerator somewhere, but he rips off one strap and leaves it among the clothes still on the floor. If the man who was his mission came back to this apartment, which he might not, and if he happened to sift carefully though the clothes on the ground, which he might not, he would find a black strap with a black buckle. The Asset believes the man is smart enough to figure out what it was and what it had come from, but by then he would be long gone.

As the Asset makes his way back to the window from whence he came, he spots something sticking out of the mirror attached to the wall. The SHIELD raid had left it folded over, so he only catches a glimpse of the picture – a mop of hair, yellowed from the sepia finish. He reaches for it, removing it from the mirror frame. It’s a picture with two adolescents. One has the face of his mission, but looks a hundred pounds lighter. His face is narrower and he looks frail. The other is tall and strong with dark hair. The boys have their hands thrown over each other’s shoulders, heads tipped back in laughter. The Asset looks at the photo, recognizing his own face, but at the same time, it’s like looking at a completely different person. These boys have not a care in the world – they did not know the horrors that awaited them. He flips the picture and reads the caption on the back:

 _Buck and me  
_ _Brooklyn, 1932_

So his mission wasn’t lying. They did know each other. They were friends. They were something. You don’t keep a picture from 70 years ago if the person isn’t someone special. He Asset doesn’t know what to do with this information. He knows what he has to do. He has to find out who he was. His mission called him “Bucky” and this photo calls him “Buck.” His mission said his name is James Buchanan Barnes. It means nothing to him. They’re just words. Names. He has to find out. He needs to know.

The Asset carefully straightens the folded section and tucks it back in the mirror frame. First he has to stay out of Hydra’s control. He needs to break through his programming. He needs to stay away from people until he knows he won’t harm anyone. Then he can find the answers he needs. He takes one last look around before sliding out the window and blending into the dark.

* * *

  _“A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice.”_

He pulls the baseball cap lower on his head. It took him a few days to get in the right mind-space, but it’s time. He spent the last few days pulling out from under his most inconsequential Hydra programming. Mostly how to think of himself. He’s no longer under Hydra’s control. He’s not their asset anymore. He’s not the Asset. But he doesn’t have another identity. Thus he finds himself in the Smithsonian exhibit about Captain America. He had snuck through the back entrance as to avoid the metal detectors. He knows the metal of his arm is not one that would set off metal detectors, but he doesn’t want to take any chances – the museum is free anyway.

He enters the exhibit, hearing the deep voice guiding him through the exhibit. He’s first greeted by a large mural of his mission’s, eyes looking into some distant future, right arm saluting.

_“Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world’s first super soldier.”_

He moves to the next panel and sees a picture of Steve from before he was turned to Captain America. His mis—Steve looks like he did in the photo found in his apartment. _I know that face,_ he thinks to himself. He still has no memories of life before the war, but he definitely knows that face. He feels it – there are memories that run deeper than time, surpassing the tricks of fate. Small children are held up by parents to measure how tall they are compared to Captain America. Teenage girls look longingly into the perfect features of the national icon. There’s something about the way they look at the pictures. He recognizes the intent of their stares; he thinks he might have look at Steve the same way, only when he was small. Whatever thoughts or feelings or memories that come to him while he’s walking around are so fleeting and he doesn’t know if he can trust them. He can’t determine what was real and what might have been implanted in his memory by Hydra. What really happened and what’s a fabrication. It gets more jumbled in his head. He moves on.

_“Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes, their mission – taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division.”_

The centerpiece of the exhibit is of seven men in a V, Steve at the front, three men to each side. They’re dressed differently, but it’s clear their a team. He goes closer to read the plaques, explaining who each mannequin represented. Jacques Dernier, Gabe Jones, Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes,  Montgomery Falsworth, and James “Jim” Morita. Those were his men. The men he had fought beside, and had given his life for. He feels the same odd tug in his mind when he tries to conjure up memories of them. The way they’re positioned and the mural that takes up the entire back wall of the exhibit shows war-weary faces, but they are determined. Determined to win. Determined to come home. Determined to live the life that was robbed from them by the war. There is so much promise in their eyes. He’s glad they eventually won the war. He’s glad that these men, good men, got to lives their lives. For the first time, he really feels sad about not getting to live his own life. It hits him all over again just how much Hydra took from him. He was hardly a man when he got sent to war. There had been so much more life for him to have. Instead, his life had been experiments, pain, torture, memory wipes, and cryo-freezes. No one deserves a life like that. He feels tears welling in his eyes.

 _Stop_ , he tells himself. _The Asset doesn’t cry._

 _But maybe James does. Maybe Bucky does_ , he thinks right after. He blinks and the tears clear. He decides to move on.

_“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable, on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”_

Finally he reaches the part of the exhibit for which he came. A semi-transparent installation holds a grainy picture of his face, not young and innocent like some of the other pictures in the exhibit – this one must have been taken soon before he fell. He can see the worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead. He’s not smiling.

He reads the short excerpt about himself, wishing it had more information. He was born in 1916 (he’d have to find the exact date). He had 3 siblings (who knows if they’re still alive). He met Steve Rogers on a playground (which one, he has no idea). He grew up in Brooklyn. He enlisted in the army. He had been captured and tortured. Steve had saved him. He turns his head to the teal wall where white letters tell him that he had been held in Azzano, Italy.

There’s a small screen playing a wavering black-and-white clip from something where he and Steve (as Captain America) are laughing at each other, as if neither has a care in the world. He doesn’t remember that day. He doesn’t remember ever being so carefree. But it pulls the corners of his mouth upwards to see the gentle ease between him and Steve. They’re not touching, but Steve is laughing, and then he turns and says something, making Steve laugh harder. They’re goofy together. They’re relaxed together. They’re comfortable together. He doesn’t know if he could have that again. Too much has happened. He doesn’t even know if he remembers how to laugh.

It’s overwhelming. He doesn’t have a wave of memories flow over him. He’s still very much confused about who he was before Hydra, but it’s all too much. There’s a lot of information for him to take in at once. He moves to some glass display cases, where they show some old bicycles and other war paraphernalia. He takes the time to absorb what he’s seen. His relationship with Steve, the Howling Commandos, and James Barnes. He feels like he’s getting a good view of who James Barnes was. He seems like he was a do-good kind of person, fiercely loyal to his friends and family. He seems like the kind of guy you’d want on your side in a fight. He thinks of his family – the exhibit doesn’t talk about his parents, but he assumes he had some. It doesn’t give the names, ages, or genders of his siblings. It doesn’t tell of what their fates were. Did they have families? Did they recover from his supposed death? He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find out. 1944 was a long time ago. But those small details aren’t necessary for him to regain who James Barnes was. He would like to know, but in an effort to reclaim his identity, he wants to know what James Barnes was like as a person, separate from the details of his family. He thinks he can. He has already taken the first step. He had brought himself to this exhibit with the intention to find himself. And he thinks he has a solid starting place. It’s not everything, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly regain his entire identity, but what he learned at this exhibit is enough for him now.

He starts to make his way out of the exhibit hall, taking one last look at the saluting Captain near the door. _I will get there. I will find him again_ , he thinks to himself, not knowing if the “him” he was referring to was Steve or himself. _I can regain control. I am James Buchanan Barnes._

* * *

It’s always the same. He goes to a Hydra base, takes out any agents on site, destroys their files and computers, and moves on. After going to the Smithsonian exhibit, James knows what Hydra took from him. He doesn’t know the details, but he gets it. Hydra took his family, his friends, his life, his mind from him. He wants to find every Hydra agent on the planet and personally kill each one, but he knows that’s impossible. He settles for destroying as many bases as possible. He starts in Asia, making his way from Japan to Portugal. He focuses on the bases that are sleepers. There are active agents waiting to be called to action. The security would be minimal for Hydra standards, and the Heads wouldn’t know they were gone until they were needed. With each underground center he obliterates, James knows part of his mind his coming back to him. It’s cathartic to him to rip out computer cables and set filing cabinets on fire.

Some days are better than others. There are days he wakes up and takes down multiple Hydra bases, passing through multiple countries in a span of a day. He’s efficient and motivated. Then there are the other days. The non-days. On those mornings, he wakes up neither James Buchanan Barnes nor the Winter Soldier. He has no identity. He is no one. A blank slate. A vessel waiting to be filled. On those days, he finds a dark corner and sits silently, not moving for hours at a time. Sometimes his non-days last for one day, sometimes a week. There’s no rhyme or reason. There doesn’t seem to be a trigger. Then there are the days he wakes up as the Asset. The Winter Soldier. Those days are the hardest, because his programming screams at him to return to his home base. He becomes confused about where he is and why he’s there. He doesn’t know what time period it is – could be a mission from the Cold War or it could be assassinating another president. On those days, he stalks a town, identifying possible targets and planning their elimination. There’s always a flash of clarity on a Winter Soldier day. Something that brings him back to the present. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was the Winter Soldier. The Asset. Now he is not. He is free. His strings are cut.

He never knows if he’s going to wake up James, the Asset, or no one at all.

By the time he makes it across Asia and Europe, he’d hit dozens of bases, killing hundreds of agents. It takes months, but when it’s done, he feels that he has a strong grasp on who James Buchanan Barnes was. The kind of person he was. He still is fuzzy on the details of his family and his childhood (he’s missing some names), but he has an identity. He’s no longer only the Asset or the Winter Soldier. He’s comfortable calling himself James. James was a good man. James cared about his family and friends. James was fiercely protective and headstrong. James stood up for what he believed in. James was a good man. He could be James. He is James.

Once he’s satisfied with the damage he’s inflicted in Europe, he decides that it’s time to return to the States and put the next step of his plan in motion. He learned at the Smithsonian that Steve Rogers was his best friend. He learned that Bucky and Steve had grown up together, fought together, and died apart, but also together. He knew that Steve Rogers was Captain America who was also his mission, but now he knows _why_ he felt such a need to save him on the helicarrier. He knows that his mission – Steve – wasn’t lying to him when he told the Asset that they were friends. He knows that in order to move forward in his recovery he needs to find Steve.

He knows what to do. He returns to the States and continues his destruction of Hydra bases. He’s as methodical. He catches Steve and his winged friend near the third Hydra base he hit since coming back to the US. So he continues on. James wants to move forward and learn more about who he was, but he needs to more time. He needs to get rid of more Hydra plants. So it’s always the same. He goes to a Hydra base, takes out any agents on site, destroys their files and computers, and moves on. Only now he leaves a small clue in the rubble. He knows Steve will find it. He leaves enough the Steve won’t get discouraged, but not enough for Steve to meet him at his next location. _Just stay one step ahead of him. When you’re ready, he’ll find you_ , James tells himself. And so it goes. For months in America. There are times when he feels bad for making Steve go on a wild goose chase after him, but he needs the time.

His travels across the country bring him back to New York. He knows he has to be careful now. Steve’s team is based here. They’ll have eyes everywhere. There’s somewhere he needs to go. Somewhere he needs to be in order to learn more about who he used to be before he can finally give Steve the gratification he’s been searching for. He needs to stay anonymous. He finds one of the few pay phones left in New York.

“Hello, I would like to make an appointment. My name is James. Tomorrow? See you then.”

* * *

He finds himself at the Brooklyn Museum. The Smithsonian had said he was from Brooklyn. So here he is, standing before an imposing stone building. He has his baseball cap, jacket, and glove which cover his metal arm and render him unrecognizable. Not that anyone would recognize him. There’s no one left to recognize him. Not here. Manhattan maybe. But not here. He slinks to the side of the building, hiding in the shadows. There’s an unmarked door that he assumes in an employee entrance. He easily opens the door and navigates his way to the archives. It’s quiet down here save for the soft whirring of the air circulation machines. The floors are carpeted, covering the sound of his steps. He can move around unseen. He reaches the archive room where a young woman sits at a desk, inputting data on a computer. She sees him approach.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asks politely.

“I’d like to see the files on the Barnes family from the 1930s please,” he responds, keeping his eyes downcast.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. The name is James.”

“Aha, here you are,” she says, making a mark in her ledger. “Follow me, James. I’ll take you to the viewing room.”

She leads him through narrow aisles of filing cabinets. He fights the feeling of claustrophobia and focuses on the scent of the room. It’s comforting in a way. The old pages smell like days lost to time, and the quiet of the room is calming. Every so often there is a break in the filing cabinets with tables and chairs, tucked into alcoves. He sees a couple other people, nose deep in yellowing paper. He begins assessing their threat level when he checks himself. _These are people doing research. Just like you. They’re not here to hurt you. They don’t know you. They don’t care_ , he tells himself. Even if something were to happen, he already knows three ways to exit the archives, each more elusive than the next.

“Here we are, sir,” the archivist says quietly. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring the boxes to you.”

He nods and sits at a table facing the aisles of filing cabinet. He hears on open and close. The archivist returns with a box, a pad of paper, a pencil, and a pair of cloth gloves.

“There are three boxes, sir, but I can only bring you one at a time. Just let me know when you’re done with this one, and I’ll bring the next. Here’s some paper and a pencil. No pens please. Make sure you wear these gloves when handling the pages, as the oils on your hands can be corrosive to the delicate ink and paper.”

He nods and takes one of the gloves she offers. “Thank you,” he murmurs, already opening the archival box. She nods and retreats to her desk. He is alone with the pages that hopefully hold some answers. He takes a deep breath and begins with the first page.

Time behaves oddly when he is at the archives. Sometimes he feels like no time passed and sometimes seconds stretch to days. The past blending with the present, events and dates blurring into one narrative of a man long lost to time. He reads journal entries by his sister, recounting the weather, the fruit sales, and mischief she and siblings got into. He reads about the holidays with his family, finding some lines in old Hebrew and Yiddish. He’s not surprised when he can read those just as easily as the English – he’s a trained assassin with mastery in an innumerable amount of languages, Hebrew and Yiddish feeling basic compared to some of the others. Yet something tugs at him when reading the loopy letters, faded with age. These aren’t just some language the Asset learned. These are languages that James Barnes learned. That Bucky spoke. These languages were as commonly spoken in his home as English.

He finds a faded copy of the Ma Nishtana, the Four Question sung by the youngest member of the family at the Passover meal, in Yiddish, written in clumsy block letters. 

His little sister, Rebecca, must have learned it in school around Passover, preparing to sing it at their family meal. It’s called a Seder, he thinks to himself. Funny how some things are known so well that they become instinct, even after 70 years and losing his identity.

His memory of his family is starting to come back, slowly. There are things that he knows or understands but has no recollection of learning about it. He could probably recite any prayer by heart, but he doesn’t remember how he knows them.

It’s been hours since the archivist brought him the first box, and he onto the last one. The picture of what his family looked like is clearer than it was. Often he’s had to stop to let a new memory wash over him. He remembers standing with his father at their cart selling fruit. He’d use his boyish smile and charm to get the old ladies to buy from their cart. He remembers the fish swimming in the bathtub before his mother makes them into gefilte fish for the Sabbath dinner. He remembers huddling under his father’s prayer shawl during services when the Cohanim, the priests, gave their blessing to the congregation. He remembers his Bar Mitzvah, he read the first portion of the book of Leviticus. It was Shabbat Zachor, he remembers, right before Purim, his favorite holiday. He loved dressing up and making noise – it was a holiday made specially for him. He dressed up as a Brooklyn Dodger player that year.

Random flashes of his childhood come rushing back to him, but it’s not until he has a few pages of the third box left when he finds something that changes his world. It’s wedged between other papers, and folded in a way that if he were not as meticulous as he is, he might have missed it. He unfolds the page carefully so as not to exacerbate the creases in the faded paper. He begins to read, his heart pounding harder with each word.

_Dear Steve,_

_Things here at Basic are okay I suppose. The men here are nice enough. I thought I was in shape after all those years I spent pulling you out of tight spots and beating up hooligans who thought you’d go down easy, but this is a whole new ballgame. Some of the guys are giant! I’m fitting in well enough. I met some nice fells who are showing me the ropes. The food here is terrible – spam and K-rations. Let me tell you, Stevie, I hope you never have to eat K-rations in your life. I know you don’t like it when I smoke, but I’ve taken it up again. I can save some of my cigs for bartering. I promise I won’t do it when I get back. I know how it messes with your lings._

_One of the Corporals saw me at shooting training the other day and said I have the making of a top marksman. Can you believe that? Of course you would, you’ve always believed in me. It’s exciting to be recognized for something that I’m good at, you know. I was always good with numbers. They’re real important for a snipers. I’m going to keep training._

_Y’know Stevie, the guys here all have some dames waiting for them at home, and they ask if I have anyone special waiting for me. I always say no, but I think about how I do have someone special. Maybe not their kind of special, but you’re your own king of special, Stevie. You’re always there for me, and I can’t thank you enough. Basic can get lonely sometimes, but it makes me feel less lonely to think about you at home. I hope you’re staying warm and safe. Please let people help you, Stevie, you can’t do it alone. I know you think you can, but you promised me you’d be waiting for me when I got back, and I’ll kick your ass if you went and died on me, Rogers._

_I gotta go now, but I’ll try and write soon. Send me a note so I know you’re not dead._

__________________________________ Bucky Barnes_

He puts down the letter, staring across the room. He finally feels like he’s getting an even better grasp on who James Buchanan Barnes was, but reading the letter sparks something else in him. Who was Bucky? Who was _Steve’s_ Bucky? Did Steve expect him to be the same Bucky? Could he be Steve’s Bucky once again? Did he even know how? So much had been lost to him over the years. He had come out of Hydra control not even knowing his own name. The person who shines through in the letter is an entirely different person than he has been reading about. This Bucky has a deep seeded passion and care for Steve with a rich history and relationship that must have transcended all others. The Bucky in the letter was still carefree and excited about life and what the future held. After all he’s seen, he doesn’t know how to be that person anymore.

He quickly takes the pages of the third box and carefully returns them to their home. He pauses when refolding the letter he sent. He vowed to himself he wouldn’t steal after coming out of Hydra’s control, but the pull is too strong. He gently takes the letter and slips it into a concealed pocket where he knows it will be safe and dry. He leaves the box on the table and walks back to the front desk. It’s a different archivist sitting at the computer – skinny boy with blonde hair.

“Hope you found what you were looking for,” the boy says as he walks by.

“I think I did. Thank you,” he responds, keeping his head low. He slips out of the museum as quietly as he entered. He blends into the shadows, the air around him quiet and dark.

* * *

He knows it’s time. It’s been a few weeks since he went to the Brooklyn Museum. He left New York the day after his visit, and continued to tear up Hydra bases. James finds himself  in Boston when he finally decides to let Steve find him. After dealing with a Hydra base located under the Boston Commons, he doesn’t leave Boston like all the other times. Instead of leaving an object, this time he leaves a note.

_I’ll be where you thought we’d have to meet again._

Simple. Cryptic. But James knows Steve will figure it out. While waiting for Steve to find the note, decipher it, and find him, James stays where he said he would be. He likes it there. It’s one of the quieter places he’s found. It has a great view of the harbor. There are shadows where he can stay hidden. He tries to prepare himself. He’s ready for this. Maybe. He wants to be ready. He wants to learn and reclaim the person who had been ripped from him.

James hears him before he sees him. His voice sounds the same as it did on the helicarrier. Less tired and war weary, but it’s the same voice. He’s talking to someone. The flying friend. James remains hidden, allowing Steve to do all the work. Now that the time has come, maybe he’s not as ready as he thought. His heart is pounding. His ears are ringing. His arm is whirring quietly.

“Sam, this has got to be it,” James hears Steve say. “There aren’t any other graveyards around here.”

“Are you sure he meant a graveyard?”

“He was dead, Sam. I went to his grave. It was the only place I would see him.”

“I don’t think he’s here, Cap.”

James takes this opportunity to shift a bit in his dark corner. The movement must be enough. It draws the attention of Steve and his friend, Sam.

“There, I saw the shadow move. I know it’s him,” Steve says, the excitement and apprehension clear in his voice. James watches as the duo walk slowly towards him.

“Bucky?” Steve asks to the wind. “I know you’re there.”

James stays still. Steve comes closer, Sam trailing behind.

“Oh thank god you’re alright,” Steve sighs in relief when they’re finally face to face. James doesn’t move. “Bucky?”

James lifts his head, seeing Steve for the first time. He’s not dressed like Captain America. He’s wearing regular clothes with a Red Sox baseball hat. It’s different seeing him now. They’re not fighting. James brought him here. Steve isn’t a target. He isn’t a mission. He’s a friend. Or a maybe friend. James looks at Steve’s face, searching for answers it’s supposed to hold. Answers for the past and the future.

“I’m so glad we found you,” says Steve, looking like all he wants to do is throw his arms around James. He’s happy he doesn’t. He’s not ready for that yet. James blinks. He should say something. He should respond. But it’s like his voice is gone. In the face of this man, he’s speechless. Not that he’s done much talking at all the past few months to begin with.

“Will you come back with me?” asks Steve, his eyes still searching. James remains still. He blinks, but he can’t say anything.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just nod if you’ll come home with me.”

He wants to nod. He wants to go. But he can’t find it in him to move. Now that he’s here, Steve standing a mere foot from him, it’s like he’s slipped into a non-day. He can hear Steve. He can comprehend Steve. But he can’t answer.

“Bucky, I know you brought me here. I’ve been getting your clues. I’ve been finding them. I’ve followed after you. Do you know how happy I was when I realized you were finally going to let me find you? Let me take you home. I’ll keep you safe. We can start over. I’ll help you remember. You don’t have to. It’s your choice, but know that I’ve been thinking about you, and I want to have you in my life again.”

James had forgotten how good Steve was with words. It happened on the helicarriers. Steve started talking, and James’ mind shut down. He doesn’t remember ever being shown such kindness. He doesn’t remember having a choice.

“I’m going to take your hand now,” Steve says, lifting his right hand. It had purpose, but it was slow enough that James could have time to react. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Steve gently slides his right hand into James’ left. The metal one. The one meant for destruction, not acts of kindness.

“Walk with me,” Steve says gently, starting to move towards Sam.

James hasn’t shied away from Steve’s hand, but he hasn’t made any active moves to go with him either. As if in a daze, his legs start walking, falling into step with Steve. They’re walking slowly, more akin to if they were actually 95. He hears Steve’s gentle voice in his ear. He’s not sure what Steve is saying. It could be nothing. He’s focusing on moving one foot in front of the other.

* * *

 He’s not sure how they got from the cemetery in Boston to Steve’s apartment in DC. James has yet to utter a single word to Steve or Sam. He’s kept his eyes downcast, allowing himself to be led. It feels different than before. Steve is ever so gentle, if James stopped, Steve would stop. The tugging on James’ arm is almost impossible to discern. Yet here they are. In Steve’s new apartment. Sam had left them at some point, but James isn’t sure when. One moment he was there and the next he was gone.

“Welcome home, Bucky,” Steve says, guiding James to the couch. He sits, allowing his eyes to roam the room. Books, TV, DVDs, some CDs, and an old gramophone. He spots something sitting on the bookshelf. He can’t quite make out what it is, but it looks familiar. It’s black.

“I found it in my apartment when SHIELD let me back,” Steve says, following James’ line of sight. “I knew it was yours. I knew you had been there. It gave me hope. Something that told me you were alive. I wondered what you were doing there, but now I know.” Steve gestures to the clothes James is wearing. He’s washed them over the months, but the outfit he borrowed from Steve’s apartment all those months ago definitely looks worse for wear. “You can borrow some new clothes if you want. I’ll have Sharon pick up some new things in your size.”

James turns his head to face Steve and gives him the slightest of smiles. He sees how relieved Steve looks, knowing that his Bucky is indeed inside what has seemed to be an empty shell.

James mostly listens as Steve tells him about the shower, the food, and the bed. Steve offers the floor, understanding that the bed might be too comfortable. James is glad he doesn’t have to make an excuse for not wanting the bed. Steve leads James to the bathroom and sets him up with a towel, toothbrush, and pajamas. Just as Steve’s about the close the door, James looks at him and says quietly, “Thank you.”

Steve smiles and responds, “You’re always welcome.” He shuts the door, giving James his privacy.

The next day is slightly easier. James is more comfortable in Steve’s presence, making eye contact more often. He smiles more. He says thank you. He tries to show his gratitude to Steve. It’s afternoon when James notices the crinkled picture tucked away in the front hall mirror frame. It’s the same one from the old apartment. He pulls it from its resting place and looks at the two laughing faces. He gently passes his fingers over his own face.

“Do you remember that day?” Steve asks, looking at the picture over James’ shoulder. James shakes his head. “Your sister’s friend had got a camera as a birthday present. They were hanging out together and we had just come in from playing outdoors. You had told a funny story and I started laughing. That made you laugh harder, which in turn made me laugh harder. We were laughing so hard, we had to hold each other up. I didn’t know Lizzy had taken the photo until your sister gave it to us for Christmas. It’s my favorite picture of the two of us.”

James looks at it again. With a story behind it, he thinks he can feel the edges of that memory. Maybe it was that day, or maybe it was another. There were so many days of playing outside and laughing with Steve. He puts the picture back and goes to where his jacket is. Now that he’s clean, he realizes just how dirty his jacket is. He reaches into the inside pocket, pulling out the letter he took from the archive. He’ll return it some day.

James hands it to Steve who takes the paper delicately. “What’s this?” he asks, gingerly opening the letter. His eyes scan the page quickly, reading the handwriting like he’s always done. People now have trouble reading the loopy, cramped script, but to him, it’s easier than reading the chicken scrawl people use.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, his eyes full of tears. “I never got this letter. It musta gotten lost in the mail. Where did you find it?” James remains still. It’s not important for Steve to know.

“Buck, this is beautiful. I can’t believe I didn’t get it. I’m so glad I can read it now. I have some more old letters, if you want to read them later. I got them back from the Smithsonian. They didn’t want to let them go, but I convinced them they were mine and now that I’m back, they belong to me. We can read them together. Maybe help you remember.”

James looks at Steve, watching a single tear make its way down his cheek. _We must of meant a lot to each other_ , James thinks, starting to understand just to what extent. Maybe he can do this. Reading that letter had brought back so much for him that reading more could only be a good thing. He wants to know more about Bucky and Steve and who they were. With more letters and more memories, he could do this. He could be Bucky.

“Yeah,” he says, surprising Steve and himself. “Yeah, I think I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

 Things are different now. He’s stayed with Steve in DC for a few months adjusting to the new century and his new life, free of Hydra. Days come and go, sometimes lingering for eternity and sometimes moving so quickly they seem to overlap with each other. Bucky has a daily routine. His therapist thought it would be wise to have a set schedule for each day. It’s simple and it gives him stability. His mind become clearer with each passing day, and non-days are less frequent, but he finds it helpful to know what he’s doing each day.

Bucky’s recovery had been on the up and up until the approach of the trial. It’s long and painful for all involved. Steve is there each day, an anchor for Bucky as each mission he completed as the Winter Soldier is recounted in vivid detail. He’ll home each night and sit on the couch staring straight ahead. He would hardly eat. He could follow simple instructions: Bucky eat this. Bucky, take a shower. Bucky please, you need to eat. He could tell how much of a strain the trial was putting on Steve, but there was nothing he could do. He spends more time in his head, fighting the turmoil. When he’s not in the courthouse, it’s like when he first came to stay with Steve. It’s like every day is a non-day.

The trial finally ends – he’s cleared of all charges. He’s a free man. Nothing hanging over his head anymore. But a legal verdict can’t take away the guilt he feels for the pain and suffering he caused to so many. Rationally, he knows it wasn’t him doing those things. He was under Hydra’s control. But that doesn’t make it any more bearable. Which is why it’s all the more surprising when one night, Steve sits down on the couch with him and asks him a question he never thought he’d hear.

“So Bucky, I was thinking, now that the trial is over and you’re doing much better, I was wondering if you, uh, would like to come to Avengers Tower with me and stay there?” Steve’s voice is quiet and tentative.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Steve, uncomprehending. He has been getting better. He’s more often James/Bucky than the Winter Soldier. There’s no more trial. It would be easy – live with Steve and his friends. Be near Natalia. Be in New York. He could do it.

“Buck?” Steve asks after Bucky doesn’t say anything for ten minutes.

“Yes,” Bucky hears himself say. The smile on Steve’s face is worth the small amount of doubt Bucky still has about the plan. He still has to figure out who he is to Steve. He’s figured out James Buchanan Barnes. He has yet to decipher who Bucky was and who Steve’s Bucky was. He knows he’s not there yet. And he knows Steve knows as well. But he wants to know. He wants to explore and learn and grow, and maybe, just maybe, he can regain what it means to be Steve’s Bucky, and where better to do that than with Steve in New York.


End file.
